


lips like honey, kiss so sweet

by kingslayer (amurgin)



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/F, First Love, Outdoor Sex, Sloppy Makeouts, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:12:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26280175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amurgin/pseuds/kingslayer
Summary: “Oh, Annie.” Mercedes croons in her angel voice a serenade laced with dulcet tones of the sweetest flavour. This is a lullaby that never fails to guide Annette back where she belongs, back home. “My dearest Annie.”Her breath tastes of honey and warm milk, thick as it settles on Annette’s lips, like a kiss from eternity signed Love, forevermore. Keeping them apart are only two heartbeats, like two butterflies, the flutter of their wings small and soft, but heavy with purpose.Annette finds sweet, sweet love on Mercedes' lips.
Relationships: Annette Fantine Dominic/Mercedes von Martritz
Comments: 2
Kudos: 20





	lips like honey, kiss so sweet

When Mercedes comes looking for her, it’s a beautiful day, the kind of which there are fewer now than ever before. The sun shines clear across a barren sky wiped clean of the mere possibility of something other than peace and quiet. As far as the eye can see, not a single cloud can be spotted—no noise, no distractions, just the blue heavens washing down into the white of the horizons, like foam coating the fringes of a great big wave as it falls back against the shore. 

All in all, things have been quite dull. A day set aside from every other only by virtue of its mundanity. 

Annette sits perched on the terrace outside the mess hall, palms flattened against the cool stone, bearing the bite of uneven grooves and keen points. She watches over the lake, her body unmoving aside from the gentle flutter of her breath while story after story unfolds before her. 

There is Flayn, cheering Linhardt on as he casts his line into the water, breaking surface before sinking. They’ve been at it for some time now, but her enthusiasm shows no signs of waning, much to the chagrin of Linhardt, who looks like he’ll pass out any second now. 

A short ways away from them, Felix turns a corner, crossing Annette’s field of vision hurriedly on his way to the training grounds. She’s quick to recognize a new sheathe at his side, beautiful designs branded meticulously into otherwise virgin leather. Judging by the grin on his face, whatever new sword he’s got his hands on was definitely worth the price.

There are others, too. Dedue disappeared into the greenhouse some time ago, Ashe subtle on his heels. Lysithea and Hilda, a gaggle of giggles, stormed the dormitories excitedly, audible even across the pond. Meanwhile, behind her, the clamour of voices shuffles in and out of the building, ravenous for a late breakfast or an early lunch. 

_It’s all a matter of perspective_ , Ingrid had told her once, after Annette walked in on one of her late-night pantry raids. And she wasn’t wrong. Perspectives shift constantly in times of war. 

Sometimes, you lose an eye and, together with half of the world, half of yourself falls prey to the darkness. Enemies turn to ashes and friends become foes, no longer able to tell the difference when it’s all about survival and revenge, about scraping your knuckles clean against someone else’s bones and paying the iron price for eternal peace. But today, _today_ is about—

“Annie? I’m not interrupting, am I?” 

“Not at all!” Only the beat of a second passes as Annette turns around, yet no amount of time could ever prepare her for what she is about to see. 

Mercedes’ smile is warm and soft all over, a pretty sight to lay Annette’s heart to rest. An effective spell, like opium diffusing into her bloodstream, Mercedes’ presence at her side is a beautiful, magical thing. Her thoughts melt into nothingness, worries and anxieties dispelled now that she is no longer alone.

“Is everything alright? You seem a little out of sorts.” 

Naturally, Annette reaches to smooth out the crinkle in Mercedes’ eyebrow, cupping her face and grazing her cheekbones with tender swipes of her thumb. 

“Just thinking.” She surrenders a smile in exchange, a small little thing in comparison to everything Mercedes has to offer, and before there is any chance to press the issue, Annette starts asking the questions. Her gaze draws down to where Mercedes holds a wicker basket, a hefty one at that, too, from which the smell of freshly-baked dough wafts over. “You’ve kept yourself busy?”

“Only a little. It felt like a good day to do some baking.” 

“Isn’t every day a good day for baking?” 

“Well, it’s true.” The laughter that accompanies her reply is short, but sweet to the bone, and Annette basks in it for as long as it lasts. “I was going to go for a walk, but it would be no fun going out on my own. Would you like to come? Unless there is someplace else you’d rather be?”

“No, no. I would love to join you. Can I help carry anything?”

“That would be wonderful, if you don’t mind.” She pulls out the blanket held against her waist by an arm, pressing it into Annette’s hold before letting go. “Shall we, then?”

__

_A picnic_ , Mercedes explains enthusiastically.

Turns out she managed to borrow the kitchen sometime in the early morning, just before the masses rushed in on stomachs emptied by the night before. A few hours later, she’s seeking Annette accompanied by a dozen or so baked treats—how she manages it all remains a mystery. 

“There’s a spot at the lap of the mountain, a short walk away from the south walls of the monastery. Nobody likes going there anymore. Not since the fighting started.” She speaks carefully, as though the mere mention of war would make it any more real than the throbbing of the wounds still scarring across their skin. “We won’t be bothered there.” 

Even so, there’s a cheeky smile on her lips when she turns to look at Annette, Annette who flushes on command, unable to gather herself from where she stands all scrambled up inside. She lingers just a touch behind, letting Mercedes guide her through the thickets when the beaten path disappears beneath bushes and fallen branches. 

Just as Mercedes had said, there are no recent signs of anyone having passed through here. On its own, that small bit of knowledge is enough to shine a new light on this little outing. Like a secret shared only between the two of them and the Goddess above, Annette feels bound to a vow, _oh_ so sacred and wondrously divine. 

Before long, the grasses grow shorter, thinner, too, and the space between the trees surrounding them widens. Crowns shed their leaves, sacrificing the foliage in exchange for a touch of the Goddess, and Annette watches every shade of green turn to pink, awestruck at the stark contrast. 

“It’s…”

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

Too distracted to notice, she misses when Mercedes turns to gauge her reaction, adoration splayed on her features as she follows Annette’s gaze flitter from branch to branch, like a goldfinch. Spring is a time of renewal; birds molting their winter skin, donning new and gay apparel for the coming year. Before Mercedes’ eyes, Annette starts to glow, rejuvenated by the life surrounding them. 

With each step they take, the sun grows stronger, more and more of its shine filtering through the forest until light is all that remains. The view opens up on a clearing, a field so deep and wide Annette can’t see its edge, only the lone tree standing tall in the midst of nothingness. 

“Thank you, Mercie. Not just for this, but for everything.” The words melt inside her mouth, but she wrestles them out anyway. There are already too many things left unsaid between them. Mercedes, on the other hand, doesn’t say anything. Instead, a hand slips inside Annette’s, fingers interlocked tightly together, inseparable to every force in the universe.

“This way.” She leads Annette down the throat of the world, stopping just short of the heart—a lone cherry tree, pink and ripe and flowering. It casts a great, big shadow, thick and cool to the touch. The perfect place to pass time idly.

Annette unfurls the blanket, laying it down for Mercedes to kneel and unburden herself of the heavy basket. With that out of the way, she sets to work quickly, emptying its contents and laying them out one by one; some muffins, a lemon cake, cookies, and her personal masterpiece and Annette’s favourite, a braided sweet bread filled with swirls of walnut filling and blown in confectioner’s sugar. Then come two plates and a bread knife, leaving Annette to watch her slice it up with greedy eyes, too eager for her own good. 

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” Soft is Mercedes’ laugh as she pushes the plate into Annette’s open hands, watching her dig in. Once upon a time, long before the Adrestian Empire took up arms against the rest of Fódlan, Mercedes’ baking was a staple at every meal. Now, on particularly savage days, they could hardly find the time to eat anything, not to mention cake.

“Mhm!” Hiding her mouth behind the back of her hand, Annette rushes to swallow. By the time she can properly respond, she’s all out of breath. “But I remember the taste as if I’d had it just yesterday, and it’s better than ever before.”

“That’s such a relief to hear.” Her heart sits tender in her chest, and she laughs, so endeared by Annette she can’t bear to look away. “Help yourself to anything you’d like.” 

Annette doesn’t need to be told twice.

Instead, she helps herself to a little bit of everything, and Mercedes follows suit, engrossed in every emotion displayed on Annette’s face. She drinks her in, all the sighs and murmurs, the little hums her voice makes over an especially good bite, and when she’s done, Mercedes pours her a cup of sage water to wash it down. 

“Oh, Mercie.” With a long, drawn-out breath, Annette settles back, full and satisfied to the core. “This has to be the best I’ve eaten in months!”

“We’ll have to make an effort to do this more often, then.” Her smile is contagious, infectious, attacking the deepest parts of Annette. The crinkle in Mercedes' eyes, fair and beautiful, lets up when her laughter dies down, making way for something foreign, something unrecognizable. “Oh! There’s a little something…” And she reaches for a napkin before aiming for Annette, dabbing away at the corners of her mouth where there’s a buildup of sugar and pastry flakes.

The gesture is intimate, perhaps _too_ intimate. 

Annette’s eyes dart between Mercedes and her hand, between the napkin and her fingers, and, when it becomes too much, she pulls away abruptly. Just then, the wind lashes out, squandering the silence between them with vicious whippings. It catches onto Annette, struggling against her and making a mess of her perfectly combed coiffure.

“Ah!” She’s taken by surprise, clambering to net every thin tendril back into its place, but then Annette hooks a different catch. Their fingers brush together once Mercedes reaches for her, a touch so soothing it lays the wind to rest and Annette’s hair with it.

“May I?” Her pointer curls around a flaming lock, so kind Mercedes has Annette gulping back her reply, leaving her to nod her head in response. At that, she crawls over and turns the other way, relieved at no longer having to face her. However, that, too, quickly becomes too much to handle. Though Mercedes is out of sight, she is most certainly not out of mind. Her touches come as a surprise. They take time to get used to, but, soon enough, Annette allows herself to relax back against Mercedes’ chest, content to have her hair played with so gently. Because Mercedes spins art out of Annette’s tresses with tender fingertips, weaving love, dreams, and poetry tightly together. Her fingers tangle locks of hair, combing through ringlets of orange sherbet with a saccharine sweetness that leaves Annette speechless.

“You’ve had a lot on your mind lately.” 

Annette can’t be the only one. So many loose ends; there is always something left to ruminate over, some remnant of something to fiddle with.

“Do you remember? The promise we made five years ago?” Eventually, her voice trembles out of her lips, a shiver and a sigh strung together into words. Annette remembers every single day they passed in the comfort of each other’s company, but _that day_ stands out distinct amongst all the rest —the smell of spices, the sounds of merchants and clients bargaining, the fullness of her hand as she held onto Mercedes. They weaved through the market stalls one by one, feeling out the petals of freshly picked flowers and counting the drops of dew still plump on their leaves. Admiration was all they could muster until Mercedes chose a primrose in full bloom to anoint Annette with, tucking its stem behind her ear and burying it inside her hair. _How beautiful_ , she whispered so quietly Annette couldn’t say if Mercedes spoke of her or the flower. 

All these years now and she hadn’t forgotten, keeping that memory close by, dried and stashed between the pages of her arithmetic textbook.

“Mhm.” Mercedes hums, a melody soft against the back of Annette’s head. “How could I ever forget? We’ll always be friends, Annie. Now and forever.”

And maybe _that’s_ just it. Maybe it’s not a friend Annette wants out of her. 

“Just that?” The longing in her tone is a fracture, splintering her features when she turns to face Mercedes. “Is friends all we’ll ever be?” Her eyes narrow, taking up a subtle sheen that shimmers softly as they settle on Mercedes. 

_She knows_. How long ago was it when she first recognized that look on Annette’s face, the yearning desire for something beyond what they already had?

“Oh, Annie.” Mercedes croons in her angel voice a serenade laced with dulcet tones of the sweetest flavour. This is a lullaby that never fails to guide Annette back where she belongs, back _home_. “My dearest Annie.” 

Her breath tastes of honey and warm milk, thick as it settles on Annette’s lips, like a kiss from eternity signed _Love, forevermore_. Keeping them apart are only two heartbeats, like two butterflies, the flutter of their wings small and soft, but heavy with purpose. 

Mercedes’ hand comes up in a gentle greeting, long, slender fingers curling against her jaw with soft-tipped touches. And underneath, Annette colours every shade of peony beneath the glorious heavens, skin dusted with pinkish tones and overtures of young love. She turns to the side, cradling her lips into Mercedes' palm and glowing, all the while, golden beneath the afternoon sun. Its light falls speckled onto her features, a field of burning freckles peppered through the gaps between each of the tree’s blooms, and Mercedes brushes them across her cheekbones like a summoning, pausing the beat of a bird’s wings to wait for an answer to her call. 

“You are so very beautiful.” The words wash warm over Annette, warm as a spring shower, prickling her skin all over when the afterthoughts of undertones unspoken occurs to her. 

Stomach rising in place of her sinking heart, she is left to count her losses—the skip of a heartbeat, the hitch of her breath, awareness of her body cut off from the waist below. All of it gone now, without Mercedes so-much-as-ever conceding anything of her own design. And still, her touches are the work of heaven on Annette’s body, reverent, made holy by the grace of the Goddess. She beckons Annette closer, tugging her to where they can bridge the gap between by laying their bodies down over the chasm. 

_This_ is belief. _This_ is faith. Body and mind surrendered to the whims of the heart.

“Come closer. Won’t you?” And Annette does. How could she resist the higher calling of a prayer so soft?

Her lips tremble beneath the weight of things left unsaid, confessions she knows Mercedes to be more than adept at coaxing out of her, one straying touch at a time. Annette sinks into the blanket, elbows bending to accommodate the weight of her body as it goes slack. Her knees melt underneath her, and, _of course_ , she is being watched, followed through irises of mauve and orchids. Mercedes’ eyes bloom anew, gleaming in a newfound flame, so very reckless and passionate with the arrival of the spring festival.

From above, the crown of the cherry blossom tree sheds bejewelled petals over them. Their branches shudder a dance, wind threading through the smaller twigs, weaving itself into a flurry of small, pink flowers. But before the world can take notice of its subtle beauty, it dies back down from whence it came.

A weary breath crosses the distance between their mouths, and Mercedes’ other hand settles upon Annette’s thigh, cupping it with a certain familiarity, as if this were not the first exchange of its kind to pass between them. Their foreheads fall against each other, bracing for impact only to find that there is none, just the friction of skin on skin. Mercedes hikes a little higher, presses a little firmer, breaking Annette’s balance until she is falling upon her back and sinking deep into the quilted blanket, overwhelmed. 

All around, the careful stitching of panels, fabrics of varying patterns strung together by Mercedes’ humble fingers, has Annette feeling as though she is part of something much bigger than herself. An actor on someone else’s stage, Mercedes’ stage, where the prick of her needle is always deliberate, always mindful of its puncture. There, Annette feels safe, at ease in the comfort of the home Mercedes has built for her. The fragrance of lavender mixed in with the heady smell of vanilla rises to her head like a cloud of dust from an open bag of flour, sense and reason vacating her body, exorcised by the heat of the sun trickling through the trees.

Beneath, blades of grass falter without protest, bent and broken when Mercedes follows suit. She lays siege to Annette’s body with her own, palm spread wide over her stomach in a web that pins her into place. Butterfly wings stretched open on the art of her canvas. There is a gasp that catches in Annette’s throat sharply, but she welcomes it all into her embrace without protest. Mercedes, perhaps just as eager, crashes upon her like the waves of the ocean, plunging deep before rearing to the surface in a head of foamy mist. Their mouths slip together without resistance, lips slotting into each other with the loud click of fervour and desire when Annette let's loose her voice inside of Mercedes. Muffled though it may be, it carves itself loud and clear inside memories most treasured, moments of unparalleled significance, few of which there have been throughout Mercedes’ life. Amongst them, Annette stands out most brilliantly, a flame burning, endlessly.

“One more time.” 

_Oh_ , to want, to _truly_ want to love and be loved is the stuff of goddesses. Annette reaches around, tangles her fingers in the short snippets of champagne hair, feeling the way it pours between each digit, admiration bubbling in her chest until she’s spilling all over. And Mercedes begins to come undone so very slowly, finally, now that Annette is bearing herself open in all her glory, both jagged points and rounded edges. 

So, she kisses her. Not just one more time, but again and again and again. 

They press into one another, fashioning their bodies into the shape of each other so there is no divide between them. A knee comes up between Annette’s legs, applying soft pressure and the steady rhythm of a gentle roll against her. The skirt of her dress gathers around her thigh in rolls, fabric wrinkling both there and where Mercedes’ hand bunches it up at her hips, pulling and pulling for her lower half to become exposed to the wind. 

A sugary sigh leaves Annette’s lips, head falling to the side, eyes fluttering shut. She’s grinding down onto Mercedes, back sliding against the blanket, making a mess of herself and everything else. Her neck cranes upwards, muscles pulling taut beneath her collar, so Mercedes takes the plunge, kissing harmonies into the sliver of skin peeking from underneath. Her own breathing becomes a chore, what with Annette running hands down the length of her spine, tracing the ebb and flow of each vertebrae when she moves. So Mercedes seeks relief southwards, slinking, snaking down between her cleavage, kissing a trail of treasures down her stomach.

At the juncture of undergarment and skin, all those pretty laces, bridal ivory and cream of satin, Mercedes rises her head above, just enough to watch Annette cast her gaze away like stones skipping water. 

_Don’t stop._

There is still so much left to see. Mercedes has yet to taste every flavour of Annette, every gem of salt and lick of nectar, ambrosia between her legs. It is all too tempting, impossible to refuse even for the most devout. 

Her fingers curl along the hem of Annette’s chemise, tugging it up to where it won’t bother them any longer. With that out of the way, Mercedes is free to anchor both of her hands into the flesh of thighs, so plump and touched by a subtle flush. Annette shudders beneath the open skies, breeze curious against her skin, but the warmth of Mercedes’ breath against her wins out quickly. 

And then comes tender wetness, a tongue firm upon her clitoris. 

From above, a moan unhinges itself from Annette’s clenched jaw, shaking as it slips out of her. She rushes to catch herself on Mercedes, hands stiffening when they bury themselves inside those wisps of champagne gold. It’s rather endearing, the way Annette pushes down, propping herself on the tips of her toes, anything, _everything_ to feel Mercedes fill her in all the right places.

A new angle, a new perspective, and Mercedes responds in kind, hoisting Annette’s legs over her shoulders and pressing deeper. Her tongue flicks up in broad strokes, tasting the folds of Annette’s vagina, lapping up thick pearls of lubricant and savouring the flavour. And for the places she cannot reach like this, Mercedes compensates with her fingers, inserting one to begin with and two as soon as Annette loosens around her. 

Soon enough, Mercedes can feel Annette pulsate around her, growing tighter with each curl, each thrust, each hook of her fingers. Beneath, Annette’s body trembles, legs shaking themselves free of their tight hold and falling limp to the ground. She struggles to find the strength to prop herself back up, to pull herself together from where Mercedes has her unravelling in translucent ribbons. 

“Just a little further.” And even if Annette can’t hear her from all the way down there, Mercedes makes good on her words using her hands. She digs her nails into the pulp of Annette’s thighs, keeping her steady, holding her down and pushing her legs outwards. 

“Ah, Mercie...” The fingers in her hair grow frantic, tugging Mercedes back up to where Annette can drown herself on her lips. Their tongues tangle together in a braid much like the one her hair is pulled into, messy with friction from sliding up and down the blanket. Throughout their many kisses, Annette can taste herself permeating Mercedes’ spit. Sweet beyond belief, but never close to being enough. 

So, Annette pulls away, not out of want, but out of _need._

Her eyes flicker open and closed, dazed and drunk, and she runs the course of lace and ruffles, leaving buttons popped in their wake until Mercedes is spilling out of her clothes. Fortunately, Annette is there to catch her. 

She’s got two good hands to feel out every curve on Mercedes’ body—the peaks of her breasts, the flow of her ribcage, the slope of her stomach as she inhales, exhales, and what her hands can’t cover, Annette uses her mouth on, carving herself against collarbones with small kisses. Her teeth catch onto the skin there, peppering Mercedes with specks of plum, bruises like firecrackers across her skin. 

Given the chance, she, too, lives up to her name.

All the breaths Mercedes takes, the gasps and moans she yields, the suspirations; they’re all small mercies Annette takes to heart. They light a fire to the soles of her feet, spinning plots of a greater design into motion in her head. 

A moment later, thoughts come alive when Annette pushes a leg between Mercedes’ own, just a little something in return for all her hard work. Mercedes catches her gaze, tests the water of her irises, but there is nothing left to be said. This is everything Annette has ever wanted. _That_ much is clear. 

And who is Mercedes to deny her? 

Sitting herself down, she starts to ride Annette’s shin, catching traction when her clitoris rubs along the edge of her tibia. The sensation is nothing short of delicious, leaving Mercedes full below and light above. She rises upright as if winged, back arching to accommodate her fingers still inside Annette, her breasts still cupped inside her hands, dress faltering off her shoulders inch by stuttering inch. Her ascent to the heavens above is short-lived, but the sight of her climax is beheld by dulcet eyes, yet another memory for Annette to remember years from now. 

Nevertheless, her turn comes first; a gasp, a shudder, body glistening of sweat and shaking beneath waves of pleasure. Impaled on her fingers, Annette falls apart only to be strung back together by the image of Mercedes’ orgasm—the sunlight catching in her hair, golden halo shining around her head, the smile stretched upon her lips, the roll of her shoulders slowing down as the bliss thins out and dissipates. 

And, in a flash, it’s over.

Mercedes falls into Annette’s arms, both of them spent on that picnic blanket. Their clothes, a mess; their lungs, a mess; and the world around them, a mess. But neither of them seem to notice, too absorbed in one another to see anything else. Annette cards her fingers through the short tufts at the back of Mercedes’ neck while she holds onto her shoulder, curling into Annette’s side lovingly. 

They pass a few moments together like that, catching up to everything that passed them by before Mercedes seizes the silence. Though she is no goddess, Mercedes answers Annette’s prayers all the same, with patience and piety. 

“We can be anything you would like us to be. Friends or lovers, as long as we’re together, I will be, to you, everything you could ever need.” 

“Mercie…”

“Yes?” She peers up, hopeful, and whatever Annette wants to say expires on her lips.

“Nothing. That sounds perfect.” 

Their smiles meet in a kiss, and Mercedes lays her head back down for _five more minutes_. Just five more minutes of feeling the breeze coast across their shoulders, of the sun burning brightly, five more minutes of mindlessness spent outside the grounds of Garreg Mach. 

Once they have passed, Annette can go back to figuring out how to keep herself, her friends and family, and her _lover_ alive, but until then, memories are waiting to be made.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for _Fódlan Secrets: A FE3H NSFW Zine_.


End file.
